


Jump the gun

by prowlish



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Alcohol, Bloodplay, Dancing, Drinking, Drug Use, Drunk Sex, M/M, One Night Stands, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-29
Updated: 2016-04-29
Packaged: 2018-06-05 05:50:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6692128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prowlish/pseuds/prowlish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ratchet decides to return to his partying for just a night. A little drinking, a little dancing -- nothing wrong with that, or what it could lead to!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jump the gun

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Arianne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arianne/gifts).



> For my dear friend Arianne, who helped me cook up the idea for this fic after I got into a band in which some of the songs made me think "Deadlock if he were a party kid."
> 
> Huge thanks to kurifurinkan for helping me whip this into shape. <3

Trust Rodion to be even more intent on partying at the brink of civil war than Iacon. Ratchet didn’t mind, nothing like a good party to take the mind off, well… everything. Two drinks in and a third in his hand and all he was thinking about was the pulse of music and the high energy of all the mechs dancing and just having fun.

 

That was refreshing. Just having fun. His optics caught different allegiance symbols for sure, but it wasn’t like he didn’t sport his own. Thankfully, there was a good vibe here; everyone seemed intent on one objective -- fun -- rather than causing trouble.

 

Good. Because Ratchet was here to party, not to be the mech who raised his hand whenever some stupid fragger got hurt and someone else asked if anyone was a doctor.

 

He was halfway through the third drink when he decided he’d better get a move on with how crowded the bar was getting. Even though Ratchet was used to elbowing his way through much rowdier places than this, he wanted to see the dance floor some time tonight! Maybe even get a little lucky. Who knew? -- but nothing akin to that would happen if he was spending all night fighting to get as many drinks as he wanted for a pleasant buzz.

 

Ratchet was mostly there, but another certainly wouldn’t hurt. 

 

He ended up elbow to elbow with a young mech. Soldier build -- no, he amended internally. This close it was easy for Ratchet to pick out the recently upgraded plating. No telling what this mech did before, but he’d had battle-grade armor installed in the last vorn.

 

There was also the scrapes around clear and very common injection points. Looks like he was doing more than just getting a drink, but that wasn’t surprising either, and Ratchet was very close to --

 

Ratchet blinked. Frag, if he was still on the verge of running diagnostics on strangers in bars, he definitely needed another drink -- or another two drinks. Making eye contact with the barkeep, he raised two fingers while he quickly knocked back the remainder of the drink in his hand. Unable to shut off the work work work part of his processor as easily as he used to was vexing him.

 

He took another look at the mech next to him -- and found him looking back. Eying his neck, even -- well, he had just shown it off. That alone had Ratchet’s interest. But the mech was certainly attractive… another point of interest. And why not? He was just here for a night, not shopping for a conjunx.

 

The bartender returned with his double order of engex (one thoughtfully sealed with a lid) and Ratchet paid -- with a generous tip -- then turned to angle his frame towards the mech next to him. “You look like you like something,” he said, quirking an optic ridge as he drank from the drink in his hand. The sealed cube he’d already slipped into his subspace.

 

The younger mech seemed surprised, but an easy grin slipped over his lips, and he mirrored Ratchet’s stance, leaning against the bar. Ratchet made no secret of his gaze on the stranger’s frame; the strong lines were only enhanced by gold and gunmetal grey, stark on otherwise white plating. He carried himself with confidence, his smooth features framed by sweeping cheekguards and finials.

 

A speedster, he’d bet. Ratchet met his optics before the mech managed to reply. “So do you,” he purred. His tones were rough, the drawl of the underbelly of Rodion or Tarn, but it was a nice sound despite all that.

 

What could he expect but bravado, with the Decepticon badge proudly displayed in the middle of his chestplates?

 

Ratchet smirked into his next mouthful of engex. “As long as we’re on the same page, here,” he said, ever so casual. Some other mech jostled, wanting his place at the bar, and Ratchet let himself be pushed closer to the mech he’d been making optics with. An absolute shame, that.

 

“Seems like we are, doc,” he drawled, that smirk still curling his lips. He said it so naturally that Ratchet blinked, almost asked if he knew this mech (and something  _ was _ familiar about him, sure, but he spent enough time at enough different, densely populated places that there was something familiar to him about a  _ lot _ of mechs he met) -- but then it struck him.

 

_ Your entire paintjob screams  _ medic _ , you idiot. _

 

Ratchet snorted and knocked back another sip of his engex. “I’m very much off duty,” he retorted.

 

The other mech chuckled, his red optics glinting. “So off duty that you’re gonna give me a name instead?”

 

Ratchet made another  _ humph _ of a sound. “Only if I get one in return,” he said. And he looked quite pleased, despite it being a little song-and-dance that was older than he was. (And that wasn’t  _ so _ old, his friends would insist, but frag if he didn’t  _ feel _ old when he came back to these haunts and just saw a bunch of kids everywhere!)

 

The Decepticon snorted as he shook his helm. He seemed to consider for a moment, then said: “Deadlock.”

 

Deadlock? What a tough-guy name. Ratchet kept that to himself, though, as he replied, “Ratchet.”

 

The other mech repeated his name, then smiled. “So, this what you do with your off-duty time, Ratchet?” he asked.

 

Ratchet snorted. “It used to be.”

 

Deadlock’s optic ridges went up. “Used to be?” he questioned. “You’re here, and off duty, yeah?”

 

“Well -- yeah,” Ratchet said, then he shook his helm. “Lemme put it this way -- I haven’t had a day off in a long damn time.”

 

Leaning his elbow on the bar, Deadlock rested his chin in his palm -- this motion conveniently jutting his hip out and Ratchet’s optics were quick to trace the line of it up his waist and back to his grinning features. “Who’s overworking you? The Prime?”

 

A clear dig at the Autobot brand on his own chestplate. Ratchet ignored it. “The CMO,” he replied. 

 

“Who’s that?”

 

Ratchet laughed into his drink. “Some fraggin’ stick in the mud, name of Ratchet.”

 

It took Deadlock a moment, but when that clicked, he snorted in laughter, shifting to stand up straight again. “So what, finally gettin in your groove again? Any reason?”

 

Ratchet shrugged. “Can you think of a single spark in this building that doesn’t have tension to blow off?”

 

Deadlock considered that for a moment. “Point,” he conceded.

 

Ratchet snorted. “Anyway, why not? All the fun in my life can’t be contained to med school,” he muttered.

 

Deadlock grinned, showing a flash of sharp denta. “There ya go,” he said. “What kinda fun are you lookin for, anyway?” He was back to purring again, and Ratchet had to admit that caught his interest a  _ lot _ more. 

 

Ratchet swirled the engex in his glass. This one was half-gone now, too. The fact that he was putting the track marks and the clearly overhyped glow of the mech’s optics out of his mind meant it was working; later, he knew, it would bother him more. But tonight he was here for tonight.

 

Finally, he shrugged. “A little drinking, a little dancing…”

 

The other mech tilted his helm, that smirk still playing over his lips. “A little somethin more…?” he prompted.

 

Ratchet smirked himself. “Well, whatever happens, happens,” he remarked. 

 

More interest sparked in Deadlock’s optics and Ratchet almost laughed again. He thought  _ he’d _ been eager! “You want dancing, I’m gonna need a drink in my hand,” he hummed.

 

“Ha!” Ratchet knew his own optics were glinting as he then, very purposefully, finished drink number three. “Who said it was you I wanted to dance with?”

 

Deadlock leaned in, the warmth of his tingling field flirting over Ratchet’s, making his spark thrill enough to stall his vents. The mech was even  _ more _ dreadfully handsome this close up. “I don’t see you bumper to bumper with anyone else,” he drawled out in that purring tone that was getting right under Ratchet’s plating.

 

Ratchet licked his lips. “Point,” he said, quirking that optic ridge of his again. Shaking his helm, he waved the bartender down again, ordering a drink for both of them. “There,” he said, as the glasses hit the bartop and Ratchet exchanged his empty glass for on of the full ones. “Can’t say I never did a thing for you.”

 

The look Deadlock gave him could only be described as  _ odd _ , and he said something like, “Never said that,” -- but it was soft enough that Ratchet couldn’t catch it.

 

It didn’t seem to matter, with them pressed so close in the dense club that their fields practically sparked between their plating, and each of them with a drink in their hands. Ratchet raised his glass, giving it a cursory  _ clink _ with Deadlock’s, before taking a swig. Oh, he was steady at it now, and he knew he should probably slow it down before he made a real fool out of himself, but… something about this mech made him feel a little reckless.

 

A little bit like he had a few vorns ago.

 

Ratchet smirked, watching Deadlock drink his engex just as steadily. 

 

This was going to be a fun night.

 

\--

 

Deadlock ended up getting a second drink out of Ratchet. Like he cared. Right now they were pleasantly warm, the press of their plating causing delightful whorls of friction -- they’d abandoned all pretense of personal space by the end of their first drink together. And thank frag for that, because Deadlock was all kinds of warm and strong and…

 

Alright, yeah, Ratchet was pretty sloshed. But it felt  _ good _ .

 

It also helped with the fact that Deadlock had grabbed him by the wrist and was pulling him through the crowds and to the dance floor. Sure, he’d talked about dancing, liked the thought of it, but scrap. He thought  _ seriously _ of it, but it seemed like Deadlock wanted to keep him to his word.

 

And why not? He’d been thinking that a lot tonight, but honestly.

 

Besides, it was pretty clear that Deadlock wasn’t exactly looking for killer dance moves. And the dance floor was full of much worse (and far more overcharged). “A little bit of drinking, a little bit of dancing…” Deadlock murmured, the slight rumble of his voice giving Ratchet a shiver right under his plating.

 

“That is what I said,” Ratchet hummed. He was already swaying with the mech’s initial motions, pulling a little chuckle from the younger mech. “Don’t laugh at me,  _ kid _ .” 

 

“I wasn’t,” Deadlock said, though the laughter was in his optics, and his smile was a little more bright than sharp and it echoed in his processors. Tugging on that familiarity again.

 

Ratchet snorted, shaking his helm -- and it was that easy to get rid of the nagging sensation. Giving him that coy look again, Ratchet turned his back on Deadlock -- and was pleased to feel the mech’s hands instantly slip to his waist. He wasn’t all lip, at least! 

 

Despite how long he’d been out of this since his academy days, Ratchet found it pretty easy to fall back into. Especially with Deadlock behind him, moving them with the music, his hands steady on Ratchet’s waist -- or occasionally, slipping down to his hips. It was  _ incredibly _ easy to forget about the close press of the other club patrons this way, with the sure touch of Deadlock’s hands and the friction of their plating every once in a while. That made his circuits jump, knowing that charge flirted between their plating and arousal pulsed in his EM field.

 

Ratchet almost tilted his helm back to rest against Deadlock’s shoulder, but he wasn’t sure about that just yet. Funny, that, when he considered everything  _ else _ he wanted to do -- but he wasn’t in the business of closely examining his motivations five drinks in.

 

He lost count of how many songs, but eventually he was facing Deadlock again, peering up into those lambent red optics as his hands got comfortable on his shoulders. 

 

Conversation had ceased, but that hardly seemed to matter. Their gazes had locked together and for now, that seemed to be all they needed.

 

That, or Ratchet was more tanked than he thought.

 

They were moving together, far closer than decency would normally allow, and Ratchet felt hypnotized by the fluid grind of Deadlock’s frame. For such strong, hard lines on his frame, Deadlock certainly knew how to  _ move _ , and Ratchet found himself wondering what the mech might have looked like before the addition of this battle-grade armor.

 

Not that his appearance now didn’t suit him. Ratchet was certainly more than revved, more than content, more than happy to step closer in the circle of Deadlock’s arms. He wrapped his own arms around the other mech’s neck, spark fluttering as he felt the grind of their plating increase in intensity.

 

Ratchet gasped a little as Deadlock grasped his hips and pulled them flush together. This time it was their panels grinding together, and if he’d never thought he’d felt weak from pleasure before…! He peered up at Deadlock, a moment seeming to hang between them for eternity before they both leaned in for the kiss simultaneously.

 

And what a kiss! Sensation zinged right up Ratchet’s backstruts as he hungrily locked lips with the mech, feeling his fingers put little impressions in Deadlock’s armor -- and the rev of his speedster engine at that had another thrill purring through Ratchet’s own frame.

 

Ratchet didn’t even mind the few sharp nips to his lower lip before Deadlock finally broke the contact. And then there were lips pressed to his audio, moving against it as he murmured, “Take this off the dance floor?”

 

By the smelter, that rough rumble shouldn’t be so damned sensual to him.

 

Ratchet’s plating shivered as he gripped tighter at Deadlock’s shoulders and pulled him down so he could answer in kind: “Thought you’d never ask.”

 

Deadlock chuckled, and showed absolutely no hesitation as he grasped Ratchet’s hand tightly and led him through the intoxicating throng of dancing mechs. 

 

Ratchet smiled to himself as he reveled in the feeling of strong hands on his sensitive fingers, and had at least enough sense to wonder where exactly it was the Decepticon was taking him.

 

\--

 

He’d burned a lot of the overcharge with their dancing, though Ratchet was still just buzzed enough not to really care how Deadlock knew precisely where to navigate them. With the close press of the crowd, he wasn’t entirely sure  _ where _ they’d gone, or how they’d slipped notice when they were clearly in some kind of storage room.

 

The glow of the extra vats of engex were all that lit them in the moment. Music still pounded outside, but as the door shut behind them, it became more of a  _ felt _ rather than heard thing. 

 

Deadlock wasn’t any less bold than he’d been the whole night, pressing Ratchet to the near wall and enveloping him in another searing kiss. Ratchet was only just as happy to return it, wrapping arms and even a leg around the mech’s sturdy frame.

 

Why not? No point in being coy.

 

Somehow, Ratchet found himself missing the warmth and general swimming feeling of the engex. Oh, this was warm, and it was intoxicating, but in entirely different ways -- and feeling both at the same time was another thing he hadn’t done in too long. 

 

Briefly, his thoughts flickered to the sealed cube of engex still tucked away in his subspace. And for a moment, he  _ did _ consider it… but he ultimately rejected the notion. Not only did it seem awkward to interrupt all of this indescribable heat and attention so that he could chug a cube, he also wasn’t sure he could stand seeing any reciprocation.

 

Whatever Deadlock had taken was still throwing a frenzied energy off his plating, entirely different from the heat of arousal or the zing of his excitement. But Ratchet didn’t want to see him injecting another circuit booster, not when he’d been doing quite the impressive job of ignoring the track marks he’d spotted first thing.

 

In the time that he’d pondered and rejected that thought, Deadlock had worked his lips down to Ratchet’s neck, and definitively pulled him back to the present with the nip of sharp denta on his lesser energon lines.

 

Oh, he knew the common reason for sharpened denta in the parts of Rodion in which he’d spent most of his time, but for all he knew it was part of Deadlock’s scary Decepticon aesthetic.

 

That thought would have him rolling his optics if he weren’t too distracted by resuming the hot grind of their frames together. Ratchet moaned, digging his fingertips in again -- and Deadlock earned himself another gasp as he pushed Ratchet up the wall a little. 

 

Ratchet reflexively wrapped his other leg around the other mech’s waist… which seemed to be the exact thing Deadlock had wanted, because he was giving Ratchet that damnable crooked grin that was all full of sinful promises now.

 

Deadlock ground their hips together once more, and the more direct pressure left the medic gasping again, his engine working just as loudly as Deadlock’s. Between the thump of the bass through the wall, and the rumble of their engines together, and the sensual grind of Deadlock’s frame against his own -- there was hardly a moment where Ratchet didn’t feel charge racing over the shiver of his plating.

 

Finally, he let out a strangled noise, his head falling back against the wall more. “ _ Frag _ , kid, get on with it!”

 

Deadlock paused for just a click, peering up at Ratchet with a look that would be hard for him to decipher even without charge and lingering engex rolling through his processors. It tugged at something in the back of his mind, that weird feeling he’d had leaning up against the bar -- like a memory file that was trying to present itself but failing. 

 

But that was ridiculous. He’d remember a name like  _ Deadlock _ \-- and the mech with that name was leaning in to kiss him again.

 

One of the hands that had been steadying Ratchet’s frame now traced down it, and right between his legs without any more teasing about it. Well. At least he was listening. Ratchet’s only reward was to finally let his panels open.

 

Deadlock hummed against his lips, clearly smiling, before nipping again, roughly.

 

Ratchet wasn’t in a mind to care. Right now it felt good -- but not as good as Deadlock’s hand squeezing down the length of his extended spike, or the barest flirt of his fingertips on the anterior node just below. The medic moaned, rocking his own frame into Deadlock and his touch, eager for more and willing to let the other mech take the lead.

 

Not much for him to argue with when he was still wrapped up in increasingly heated kisses, his plating trembling with the arch of his back when Deadlock pushed two fingers into his valve. Ratchet’s engine snarled, fingertips biting into plating again; now that they got going, Deadlock clearly didn’t intend on stalling.

 

Good.

 

He moved with the fingers thrusting into him, feeling his arousal spiral unbelievably high. Pleasure sparked through his circuits, making his frame hot to the touch -- and he could feel the same heat from Deadlock, too. Ratchet squeezed his valve, earning a moan from both of them.

 

Judging from the quick pace and how eager Deadlock was to pause and press three fingers into his valve, he was starting to get impatient. Between the racket of their engines and the music still pounding on the other side of the wall, it was a wonder Ratchet heard the  _ click _ of the other mech’s panels opening. Maybe he’d just been straining to hear that, well beyond  _ eager _ himself -- but frag it was hard to content himself to wait much longer when three of the mech’s fingers pumping into him didn’t feel like enough.

 

“Deadlock,” he growled, tossing his helm back against the wall and rocking his hips  _ forward _ .

 

Deadlock chuckled, leaning their helms together, slipping his fingers from Ratchet’s valve and playing with his anterior node instead. The other mech purred, clearly enjoying the gasps of pleasure, accompanied by the impatient flicker of Ratchet’s EM field.

 

“Didn’t know you’d be this into it, doc,” he hummed.

 

Ratchet rolled his optics. “Told you I was here for a good time, didn’t I?” he grunted. 

 

Deadlock grinned, nipping at his audio. “Something along those lines.”

 

Letting a hot blast of air out of his vents, Ratchet moved his grasping hands up to Deadlock’s helm. “And here you are, making me wait.”

 

The Decepticon chuckled, moving his hands again, clearly shifting them to get their arrays lined up better, and Ratchet slipped his hands up to grip the finials framing the mech’s helm.

 

That got a completely different gasp and shiver out of Deadlock. Oh, there was a spark of interest in  _ that _ from Ratchet, but before he could form a lucid thought about it, Deadlock nudged the head of his spike against his valve and pushed in with a steady thrust. The result was more or less the same, anyway; he squeezed the finials in his hands and thrilled in the resulting full body shiver from Deadlock. Oh, that was good. Not just for the satisfaction of it, but from the way that shiver had jostled the mech’s spike, hilted deep in Ratchet’s valve.

 

“C’mon,” he growled again, though his voice was more breathless than intimidating.

 

Deadlock didn’t seem to care. He shivered again, plating rippling against Ratchet’s as he squeezed those finials again, and Ratchet really did let his mind fade into bliss as the younger mech started rocking and grinding their hips together.

 

It was still a tease, but it was  _ something _ . Unconsciously, Ratchet’s hands matched the pace of Deadlock grinding into his valve, alternately squeezing and running his fingertips up them to tweak the points.

 

A few rounds of  _ that _ was all it took to get Deadlock a little more desperate. Just some teasing -- Ratchet was ever so delighted to have found such an  _ easy _ hot spot -- and Deadlock was pounding into him with spirited thrusts, moaning into Ratchet’s audio. Panting, Ratchet tipped his helm back, just clutching at Deadlock’s helm for a moment. 

 

This time, when Deadlock’s lips strayed to Ratchet’s neck, he nipped a little harder -- less control in the passionate moment -- and an alert on his HUD accompanied the sting of pain: a breached line. It was little more than a nick on a minor energon line and Ratchet dismissed the warning impatiently.

 

But then he felt the warm slick of a glossa against the injured line and sucked in a quick intake.

 

Distantly, Ratchet made the connection that his passing thought about the mech’s sharp denta had been correct -- for siphoning. And that was essentially what Deadlock was doing, licking the spilled energon on his neck, feeling like he was trembling into Ratchet all the more for it.

 

A lot of mechs -- those notably “above” the class of mechs living on the streets of Rodion -- found the action degrading, a depravity practiced by degenerates. Ratchet never cared about it, but he understood, having spent quite a bit of his life trying to help those who never had enough fuel, who sometimes needed simply  _ anything _ to put in their tanks to stop emergency stasis lock.

 

And, in Deadlock’s case, could be something of a kink. Or at least, something he  _ really _ liked, because he shivered with arousal again, the pace of his thrusts becoming erratic, and Ratchet could feel his lips closing around the wound, and --  _ frag _ . It was a completely different sensation when Deadlock sucked at it, pulling energon  _ out _ of the line, and Ratchet had to admit that it gave him a shiver in his extremities that he didn’t expect.

 

And scrap, it wasn’t like he didn’t have a regular ration alongside the engex in his subspace.

 

“ _ Deadlock-- _ ” he rasped, squeezing his legs tight around the mech’s frame.

 

Deadlock siphoned, and he resumed the hard pace, his spike sliding over the  _ very _ primed mesh of Ratchet’s valve, drawing increasingly appreciative sounds from the medic’s vocalizer as more charge started reaching the topmost nodes from Deadlock’s spike. He felt like the air in his intakes just stalled, leaving him grasping and crying out, overload so close he could taste it on the back of his glossa.

 

Another sensation took him by surprise -- he hadn’t noticed Deadlock moving a hand from his waist, but he  _ did _ notice it grasping his spike. The strokes were uneven -- there was a fine tremble in Deadlock’s fingertips and Ratchet had enough time to note it before overload practically thundered through his frame, robbing his intakes again and shrinking his world to heat and charge and shivering pleasure.

 

He could feel Deadlock’s as well, like an extra pulse in his own climax -- fields flaring, charge crackling, and transfluid hot on their plating from his spike between them.

 

Holy frag.

 

Ratchet felt like it took a long time to get his processors working again through the lingering engex and the pleasure haze, though if he checked his chronometers he’d see it wasn’t  _ that _ long.

 

But he didn’t care to check his chronometers. For the next little bit, he could be content, trapped between Deadlock and the wall, their fluids dripping down his thigh as his HUD happily informed him that autorepair was taking care of the cut on his neck. And Deadlock didn’t seem motivated to move either, plating trembling and settling flush to his protoform again as he panted hotly against Ratchet’s neck.

 

\--

 

They ended up back at Ratchet’s flat, because of course they did. Cleaning up at the club hadn’t been as awkward as it maybe should have been, and Ratchet found himself reluctant to part ways so soon.

 

He hadn’t regretted it. With the space and luxury of a berth, Deadlock proved to be a  _ very _ talented partner indeed, and he seemed intent on practically spoiling Ratchet. Funny -- he hadn’t expected that of a Decepticon… but Ratchet got his own licks in as well, so to speak.

 

The pounding in his head when he woke up was something he  _ hadn’t _ missed about this whole experience, though the aches in his frame were of a much more pleasant kind. But he accepted the consequence when he’d gone out in the first place, and thankfully had painkillers within reach.

 

He wondered if Deadlock would need some as well; Ratchet didn’t know how much or of what the mech had taken, but when he finally convinced his optics to online, he saw it didn’t matter.

 

Deadlock was gone.

 

Ratchet wasn’t surprised, really, but it still left an empty feeling in his spark.

 

With a sigh, he rolled over on his back, staring up at the ceiling. Awake, and sober, and not yet feeling like getting up for a cube of coolant, Ratchet could only think about the previous night and the mech he’d spent it with. Even now, the nagging familiar feeling persisted.

 

He tried to put it out of his mind. He’d met a lot of mechs like Deadlock; rough around the edges, addicts, acting tough because it made them feel a measure of strength and control, filing their denta into fangs to make siphoning that much easier… and a lot more of them were wearing that purple badge, lately.

 

And right now he wasn’t going to think about how spending the night fragging Deadlock probably wasn’t the most responsible thing he’d ever done. A one night stand was all he’d wanted, and it’s what he’d gotten, and what a hell of a night it had been! No, he’d stave off doubts for a little longer.

 

But the  _ looks _ the mech had given him a few times. It was jogging a memory, and with less engex dampening his processors, it finally surfaced:

 

A young mech, freshly repaired, giving him a wide-opticed stare as he offered a kind smile and some encouragement. His plating was less bulky than Deadlock’s, his optics gold instead of red, but the lines of his frame and helm seemed to match…

 

Ratchet frowned. No -- Deadlock hadn’t been that mech’s name, and that was ridiculous anyway. He tried not to have morbid thoughts about the mechs that passed through that clinic, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew that despite his efforts, many of them ended up right back where they’d started, and not with a very happy ending.

 

Sitting up, Ratchet shook his helm. No, there was no connection. He’d had too much engex and been thinking back on all his years in Rodion too much. How many speedsters were built the same way, even had similarly attractive finial formations on their helms? 

 

Not that it meant anything, anyway. A day on his circuit slab, or a night in his berth -- it wasn’t like he was going to see either of them ever again.

**Author's Note:**

> visit me on [@prowlish](https://twitter.com/prowlish) on twitter!! :)


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